


From The Mouths of Babes

by violentdarlings



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kid Fic, Pre-Hobbit, Thranduil is secretly a softie, Tiny Tauriel is adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:03:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Tauriel is presented to the king by her nomad parents. She is just as much a handful at four as she is at 600+.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From The Mouths of Babes

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't help myself.

It is customary, to bring newborn children before the king. Thranduil has sat on the enduring strength of his throne and seen many a babe presented to him. The low birth rate among his kind makes children a rarity and a gift beyond measure, rather than the burden they can become in the world of Men. He remembers seeing thin, dirty faces by the dozen as he rode through the villages of Men in his youth, and something in him had rebelled at the sight of those neglected offspring.

(Oropher had caught him surreptitiously emptying the contents of his money pouch among the ragged children, with their outstretched hands and gummy smiles. Thranduil had been quietly wondering at their cheerfulness, for all the squalor and poverty they lived in, when his father had silently come up behind him. “Son,” Oropher had rumbled, and Thranduil had jumped like a scolded child. He had expected the heat of his father’s anger and the resignation of his disappointment. But Oropher had merely pressed another pouch into his son’s hand, and walked away. Thranduil had stared after him in shock.

They had lived meanly for the rest of that journey, but it had been worth it.)

Medeth and Curwion, two young Wood Elves, are bringing their daughter before him. Medeth and Curwion are wanderers, nomadic, even. Their child is but four years of age, and looks much like her mother. They have recently returned from a journey to Lothlorien; Thranduil knows well from experience that they will not stay long. He does not take it personally. Wanderlust is always strong in the young. Even Legolas is starting to occasionally stare longingly at the horizon as though already imagining himself away.

“Welcome once more to my halls,” Thranduil says. “I trust your journey was without difficulty?”

“Well enough, thank you, sire,” Medeth says. She is the more talkative of the pair. “It has been five years since we have been at home. In that time, we have been blessed by a child. This is Tauriel.”

Thranduil examines the child, who stares defiantly back at him. Red-headed and green eyed, she will not be a beauty when she grows up. At least, not a beauty by the standards of his kin, Thranduil reflects. There is neither kindness nor unkindness in this thought. It has been long since Thranduil can recall having the capacity for any emotion other than the cool detachment necessary to keep the ancient wounds at bay. The child’s colouring is that of her mother, but the calm stubbornness in her small face is all her father. She will be a handful one day, he thinks, and wonders why he even cares.

“She has the look of you both,” he says finally, aware that he must say something but having little taste for it. He has little appetite for anything since his wife began along a path that he could not follow her on.

_Where is my wife he had bellowed nay shrieked and none could find her in the filth and blood, it was as though the fell earth of Angmar had devoured her whole and left no trace of her anywhere where there was light and sun and all the things she so loved._

“Thank you, sire – Tauriel, no!” He is shaken from his reverie by Medeth’s half-panicked shout. Heedless of her mother’s restraining arm, the child has darted free and is heading pell-mell for Thranduil’s throne. Thranduil’s heart leaps into his mouth as the tiny creature flies up the stairs to stop just before she walks into Thranduil’s legs. He sees the sudden worry flare in the faces of the young parents, and is both dismayed and confused. Has he truly become such a tyrant, that his subjects should fear of the safety of a mere child around him?

Gently, he picks the girl up, holding her at arm’s length and allowing her to look into his eyes. “Did you want to see what the view is like from up here, little one?” he asks, and the sudden tension eases. Medeth and Curwion laugh a little, and Tauriel smiles a great happy grin at him.

“King,” she informs him, tugging on a length of his hair and tapping his crown with a tiny finger. “Pretty king.”

Thranduil hears a muffled noise of suppressed horror, but in truth he is having to fight the twitching of his lips. It is so long since he felt the urge to smile, to smile truly, rather than his customary chilly smirk. “Is that so?” he asks the child, and she nods vigorously. “Well, then, Tauriel. It must be so.” Rising, he shifts her onto one hip for safety, and carefully makes his way to the base of his throne. Medeth comes forward to take her child back into her arms, but Thranduil holds onto the girl a moment longer. “Pretty Tauriel,” he informs the little one, and the child beams back at him and, in a quick wriggle that almost has him dropping her, leans forward and presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek.

“Nice king,” she says, and allows herself to be taken by her mother.

“Where do you intend to go from here?” he asks, and the couple exchange a glance.

“We thought perhaps Rivendell,” Curwion says carefully, well aware (as are all Thranduil’s subjects) of their king’s dislike for Lord Elrond. “Truthfully, my lord, we do not know.” He hesitates a moment.

“We are content, to be together, the three of us,” Medeth adds. Thranduil inclines his head.

“A noble goal,” he replies. “There will always be a place for you here, should you wish it.” He looks again at the red-headed girl child. “You have a strong daughter. She bears her name well.”

Curwion flushes with pleasure, Medeth smiles, and together they take their child away to their quarters. Thranduil, watching them go, sees a pair of green eyes peep over Medeth’s shoulder and a small star-shaped hand wave gleefully at him.

“ _Namaarie_ , king!”

Thranduil sits deep in contemplation for much time after they have left. “ _Mae govannen,_ Tauriel,” he says at last, although there is no one left to hear him. “ _Tenna' ento lye omenta_.”

 

 

 

Translations:

Namaarie – goodbye / farewell

Mae govannen – well met

Tenna' ento lye omenta – until we meet again.


End file.
